


Can't Dare To Dream About You Anymore

by RosalieBlack



Category: Anne of Green Gables (TV 1985) & Related Fandoms, Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Affairs, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Debauchery, Drama & Romance, Explicit Language, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Gilbert has chest hair, Gold Digger, Gold Rush, I may change my mind, Minor Character Death, Or not, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Romance, Shameless Smut, Smut, TW: minor characters' deaths, There's gold in Avonlea, Title from a Taylor Swift Song, anne wears pants, explicit content, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28794141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosalieBlack/pseuds/RosalieBlack
Summary: They say she's a gold digger. She killed for a piece of land. She married for money. She's trollopy, vain and mad.They say he's changed. He has been doing God-knows-what-and-where. He came back for gold. He's debaucherous, murky and crude.Avonlea is a rotten place. So they say.
Relationships: Anne Shirley & Rachel Lynde, Anne Shirley/OC (mentioned), Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe & Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, Gilbert Blythe & Sebastian "Bash" Lacroix, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Josie Pye & Anne Shirley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	Can't Dare To Dream About You Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> GENERAL CONTENT WARNING:  
> This work contains brief mentions of characters' death, child abuse, explicit sexual content, explicit language.

“Just try not to get this hand of yours dirty for a few days, and you’ll be as good as new soon, Ned” Gilbert Blythe instructs his fellow underdeck resident as he finishes wrapping the older man’s hand into a makeshift bondage made of a battered, sweat stinking and coal coloured cloth. _SS Faith_ , rusty and heavy steamship, slowly approaches its destination, fire in furnaces dies with each passing minute. The name of this ship is quite a mistake, since while the minister prays in his tiny chapel many stairs up, men downstairs shove hands under their belts, use the most expressive curses, and gamble over a pack of cigarettes. 

This is a diversity of life, sinners live underdeck surrounded by everlasting hot flames licking their skin slowly, fire consuming their weak souls to feed itself, the sound of perpetual screams and grinding — the pits; while blessed souls live on the deck, breathing ocean breeze, warming their faces in the sunrays, at the end of the day sitting in the chapel and listening to minister’s words, not aware of what is happening downstairs at the moment. 

On _SS Faith_ the only thing that decides who is a sinner and who a saint is the amount of money they possess. 

“Oi, doctor Blythe! Move your ass here and help with the ropes!” Someone shouts from the staircase, and the young man leaves Ned to his bottle of rum hidden under a mattress, and a stog jammed in between the remains of teeth that survived countless tavern fights and scorbutus. 

Port St. Agnes is truly a peculiar place to visit, but a hard one to live in — this is a city for those, who are bold and not fear any deceitfulness. Another tricky one, named after the saint, who died as a virgin martyr, holding patronage over chastity for centuries after her death, only to be eventually tarnished by a group of renegades that started the town in the late 18th century, filling it with thieves, murderers and prostitutes. It is an enclave located on the North West African coast; the city without any country affiliation, without any actually written laws, with criminals as its law enforcement, authorities and bankers. There’s nothing bizarre about lack of a single temple or a hospital, since no one needs to pray here, and those who dare to be sick know their life will soon meet its end, if not from the merciful hand of the Reaper coming after them in their sleep, then from arms of a first robber, most likely stronger than them. 

After finishing his work for the day Gilbert waits for other men to leave underdeck as they head to the nearest tavern for a drink, and most likely to find some women willing (or not) to satisfy their primal needs. He waits a few seconds after John’s back has disappeared behind the heavy metal door to rip his pillow with a pocketknife. The man pushes his hand into a liner made of goose feathers and blindly searches for a brick shaped object, grasping at it a moment later with the triumphant smirk on his face. He retrieves a wedge of bills immediately hiding it into a shabby leather bag, the one he carries since his father gave it to him on his thirteenth birthday; the bag isn’t too full — just an old piece of Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_ with a pile of letters pressed between pages, some cigarettes that are a local currency and a few personal meaningless belongings. 

First steps on deserted, sunburnt land are unsteady, so the young man needs to take a second to let his legs feel the hardness of ground beneath his feet. Air is hot, heavy from all of the dust that never settles, dryness comes down on his tongue like a bitter syrup that leaves him craving water more than before. Gilbert knows by the shore he would quicker be given a good pint of beer than a glass of water, so he heads straight to the town center where he would later look for a place to sleep. The young man doesn’t intend to come back on ship, not on _SS Faith_ at least, he has made up his mind some time ago that he’s going to make his life much more meaningful than it is now; but to do this he needed money that would allow him to start a brand new life. Now that he has all of it, the world seems to keep its gates open for him. For the first in a while Gilbert lets out a breath of relief. 

A tiny avenue leads slightly up, since the other end of the town is placed on the slope. Each of his steps whips canopies of sand and dirt up from the cobblestoned stairs; even though physical work made his posture sturdy he has to stop and take a breath every few minutes — the longer he wanders up the more sweat beads appear on his forehead and fall under the collar of creamy shirt. The sight of a local market appearing before him, gradually revealing itself for his eyes makes his lips twitch in a mad satisfaction, so the man speeds up a bit. Just a few stairs away from the main square the woman ahead of him collapses, and his body works on its own accord when he sprints to her. Gilbert doesn’t need to be a doctor to guess correctly what is wrong as her loud groans and a hand splayed across the roundness of belly tells him everything he needs to know — she’s in labour. The man’s veins fill with ice cold daggers as he stills, paralyzed, next to the crying woman. He hears the incoherent noise of the nearest market, loud voices of children cursing and laughing as they sing one of sea shanty, but there’s no one around who could help her. 

“Hey, you!” Gilbert shouts at the very first passerby who tries to walk unseen past them. To his utter surprise a tall figure stops suddenly and turns around on their heels as a beige hood falls off their head uncovering a young woman, as pale as freshly washed bed sheets, looking at him with the mixture of amusement and curiosity in her doe eyes. Her hair is twisted in a tight bun, a few loose strands of red hang around her head. “Come here and help me!” 

For what seems to be an eternity the man thinks she will leave, but the woman approaches them carefully, fixing her eyes on him. He’s not even sure she understood him, since residents of Port St. Agnes come from different parts of the world, each speaking their own language. She stops and gazes at them, a cunning smile playing on her lips. 

“She’s a whore.” The woman informs him, and it looks like she’s having a lot of fun watching them struggle. The other one shifts under his arm, screaming and writhing in pain as she grabs his hand forcefully. The redhead snorts. “There’s a woman that can help her.” 

“How long will it take to get her here?” Gilbert asks helplessly, knowing it’s just a matter of minutes until the baby starts entering this world for real, and it can’t happen on a dirty street. 

“An hour, maybe less.” Her accent is strong, each letter covered with the thick melody of a raspy voice, and had the man time to guess he would say she’s from Europe, probably eastern part of it. 

“We don’t have an hour! Help me get her into a cleaner space!” 

The red haired woman raises her eyebrows at him, not moving until the pregnant prostitute shouts something in her direction, something Gilbert doesn’t understand, but it turns out to be a great news — she lives nearby. Together they help the other woman stand on her own feet, and with his support she’s able to make little steps toward her home. The three of them reach her tiny room in the back of a brothel just at the right time, before she collapses on the sofa, muffling her cries with the back of a hand. Previous fear has faded away and Gilbert frantically looks around in search of some clean clothing, he’s focused properly now, he can think calmly and analyze the situation. 

“I need hot water and fresh linen, now!” 

The redhead doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, but finally moves when he sends her a scolding glare; she comes back minutes later with a bowl full of freshly boiled water and some old patched bedsheets. The moment he checks up the dilation he knows for sure something is not alright. 

“Fuck.”

“What is it?” Her hot breath tickles his neck as a few beads of sweat make their way down his back, and the woman leans in closer to take a peek from behind his shoulder. 

“It’s a breech baby.” He doesn’t need to look at her to know that the redhead doesn’t understand a thing about what he’s saying, because she huffs carelessly again and then moves around the room touching and scoping things out curiously. Her cavalier presence isn’t helpful, Gilbert finds himself sharing his attention between two women as the time leaks through his hands until he hisses through gritted teeth. “Sit down or leave.” 

Three hours later a healthy looking boy enters the ruthless land of Port St. Agnes, and for once Gilbert is not the only one that breathes with relief when the infant releases his first cry. 

They leave the brothel room as soon as the man is sure that both the baby boy and his mother are safe. Gilbert trembles when a crisp night air hits his sweated, flushed skin covered by a gossamer creamy shirt. In the darkness provided by a cramped space between buildings he can’t recognise the direction he came from as he turns around, trying to find a familiarly looking corner. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” The redhead laughs at him, following his lost steps intrusively as he tries to reach the main road that would lead him to a place where he could rent a room for the night. “What’s your name?”

The realisation that he doesn’t even know the woman hits him hard, considering the fact that he spent the past five hours ordering her around without at least presenting himself to her. A jolly chuckle leaves her milky throat disappearing under a beige neckerchief when she spots his dumbstruck expression. For a moment he’s not sure if he should trust that sly creature whose doe eyes analyse each of his movements as if he was her prey; something deep inside his guts tells him to avoid her. 

“Gilbert. What’s yours?” The man ignores that voice of reason. 

“Irena.” She says proudly, with a contented smile playing on her lips, and then she turns around walking in the opposite direction. “Come with me if you don’t wish to freeze here to death. I know a place where you can sleep tonight.” 

Gilbert doesn’t have many options, so he follows Irena, whatever destination she’s trying to head to. At the back of his mind he still has the mother’s face after she saw her son for the first time — it wasn’t happiness, not resentment either. She looked like she didn’t feel a thing at the moment, the emptiness of her gaze haunts him even now, despite the fact he doesn’t know a thing about her life. Did his own mother have time to at least take a look at him? Had she cuddled him before she took her last breath?   
  
“What will happen with a boy?” He lets out a nagging question that rooted itself in his head. The redhead doesn’t stop walking, but slows her pace a little bit, not looking him in the eyes.   
  
“If she’s a good mother she will send him away with the very first missionary ship that will appear on the horizon.” Irena shrugs her shoulders at the possible thought as her gaze wanders somewhere else. Gilbert studies her expression for a moment, before it comes back to complete blankness covering her sharp features, merely a shadow creeping on her face. “Good that it’s a boy, he’s going to have an easier life.” 

There’s an unsaid truth in the redhead’s words, and the man doesn’t have to know a lot about Port St. Agnes to decipher the meaning hidden in the tone of her voice — if it was a girl, she would probably live the same life as her mother. She would have to sell her body at a very young age, probably not even an adult age, to survive in this town. Sailors would come to her, not caring a tad about the fact that in any other civilised town she would be playing with other children, then they would use her and leave with a few cents (if they would be generous enough). She would be with child multiple times, but most likely she would get rid of the burden each time. All of sudden Gilbert feels more resentful towards the ground he’s stepping on than he has felt in a while — he’s a part of that machine, he has shoved coal to furnaces to bring his ship here many times before. He worked with people who have come here and used young girls, he clapped them on the back after a day or night of hard work. The man’s eyes wander automatically to Irena’s tall, slender posture as he locks his gaze on her sharp profile. 

“Are you— ”

“I’m not a whore, don’t look at me like that.” The redhead snaps at him, her accent is even more prominent when she’s irritated. Gilbert doesn’t have the time to apologise for his boldness, and honestly she looks like she doesn’t care what he has to say as she pushes the heavy wooden door, letting him into a small interior that is a kitchen, a living room and a master bedroom at once. Irena lights up a few candles and a dim flame enlightens the tiny space of her apartment just so he can see the objects more detailed. “You need a bath, doctor Gilbert.” 

She throws a bar of soap at him, and in the candlelight he can spot dried blood stains on his hands and shirt as he approaches a tin bathtub; there's water in it, probably left after washing or a previous bath. The man notices that Irena has left the room, so that he can have some privacy; and takes his clothes off, dipping his feet in lukewarm water as he scrubs his hands with soap. It doesn’t take him longer than a few minutes to rinse all the dirt off, so when the redhead reenters the room, he’s already done wrapping a piece of clothing around his hips. There’s something new about her expression as she shortens the distance between them and stands in front of him just in something what should be a chemise, but in fact is just a square of sheer fabric. Gilbert’s stare flickers over her body as she strips naked and immerses into water, gently rubbing suds into her skin. She’s almost as white as paper, as if the sun that burns the ground of Port St. Agnes has never touched her, there’s no sign of a single mole or a freckle, as well. The man tries to give her at least a window dressing of decency as he shifts his head to the side, fixing his eyes on a rift in the wall, and ignoring the most primal instincts fueling a fire in his groin. The woman finishes washing herself, and stands in front of him again, just as naked as she was a few moments ago. 

This time Irena is bold enough to rake her nails down his chest where the wet dark curls plaster to his skin, and tugs onto the piece of clothing he has covered himself with. Gilbert slowly gives in since he’s unable to fight off flames that are consuming his flesh languidly; he lets out a quiet groan when the redhead wraps her hand around his length and starts pumping lazily. The man wants to tell her that it’s not what he’s expected from her, and she doesn’t have to do anything, but before he has time to form a tiny speech she grabs his bearded chin. 

“Shhh… Just enjoy the moment, doctor Gilbert.” Irena coos with the sweetest voice he has ever heard from her lips. “Not every day a handsome young man visits St. Agnes.” 

The woman drops herself to her knees, kissing the tip of his borderline red, leaking cock, before she takes him into her mouth. A carnal moan leaves Gilbert’s throat at the sensation of her wet warmth as he dives his hand into straight strands of red — that’s when he realizes it’s not the same hair he touched years before, not the same he sometimes dreamt of. Irena bobs her head, methodically turning him into a gasping mess as he tries to keep himself collected; it has been a while since the last time he was with a woman, he knows the pleasure will come and go away quickly, leaving him insatiable. There’s no flame in her eyes, not even a spark; if anything, she’s doing the pathetic man he is a favour. The redhead hums jovially, sending vibrations along his shaft as she starts sucking the sensitive skin; shivers run down Gilbert’s spine, his fingers gripping the table behind to ground himself. Then the woman stands up and turns around, grinding her butt into his burning hot dick, she leads each of his moves as if he was her puppet. “Now, fuck me, doc.” 

Irena nearly whines as Gilbert enters her in one smooth push of his hips, going slowly, not sure how comfortable she is with him. Once he’s inside of her, the woman sets the pace dropping her hand to her clit and rubbing it as he flexes hands on her hips, driving into her hard and fast until her voice becomes a high pitched cry. The man pulls out just in the right time to spill his seed on her back with a guttural growl. There’s nothing splendid about it, just two people following their primal desires; he used to hear from lovesick lunatics that ‘making love’ to their women was an experience out of this world, but somehow he can’t relate to that claim. 

“Your hair… is dyed, isn’t it?” Gilbert asks when they’re both settled down on a small bed, sharing a slice of stale bread, but beggars can’t be choosers, so he chews on his meal lazily, without a word of complaint. 

“Because it doesn’t match my lower hair?” The woman cocks her brow at him, her brown eyes seem to be almost black in the candlelight. “How many redheads did you fuck?” 

“None.” Gilbert chuckles at her words. “But I’ve known one; she had so many shades in her hair, it used to fascinate me. One time I called her ‘Carrots’ and she whacked me over the head with a slate.” 

Momentarily the letters pressed between pages of Whitman’s book are heavier on his heart than ever before. He fixes his gaze on the shabby bag that contains almost seven years of experience — a friendship, a heartbreak, a loss. A whole lot of missed opportunities to come back home. There were times he genuinely thought about jumping on a first ship to Canada as homesickness struck him hard, an overwhelming sense of belonging called out for his whole being, and a pull to the island was too strong to resist it. Gilbert no longer feels that way as the loud cry of red land has been drowned out by other sounds, living sounds of the world that surrounds him. His lust for life is too great to be stuck on the island without possibilities. 

“She should have done more than whack you over the head” The redhead brings him back to the here and now, out of miserable thoughts. “So, you’re heading to London tomorrow?” 

“Yeah, that I’m going to do.” He’s so close to his ultimate goal, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to fall asleep. Excitement rushes through his veins at a neck breaking pace and even a stale bread doesn’t seem to be powerful enough to ruin his day. Finally, after all those years he has found a purpose, a way to change his life and become a more significant part of the bigger. He can study, he can eventually be a researcher to help other people, to make their lives better and to prevent them from dying because there wasn’t enough medicine for them since someone wealthier had a cough. “I’m wondering what she does now… I bet she’s a well known writer. _ASC_ . _Anne_.” Her name on Gilbert’s tongue sounds like the sweetest syrup. 

That day in Port St. Agnes, as in many more places around the world, someone took their first breath, but little does our future doctor know that on his tiny island someone let out a last sigh. On a cold October day Lord Almighty took to his realm Mr Jerome Gardner, who died peacefully in his sleep as his wife held his hand and a family doctor eased his pain with proper medicine. His death, expected by the closest ones, caused a real turmoil in Avonlea town and Mrs Harmon Andrews made sure everyone heard her expert opinion about the matter. Soon each resident of the town, whether they liked it or not, knew that probably Mr Gardner was poisoned by his wicked wife. 

“I used to think I would look great in black” Anne Gardner says as she looks at herself in a huge golden framed mirror, one of many that grace the walls of Nightingale Estate. “Unfortunately, I look as bad as I did two years ago.” 

Young Cecile Baynard smiles at her, friendly rubbing her arm and helping with the very last adjustments. Both women hear the conversation that takes place in the parlor — the minister, Moody MacPherson, came to make sure everything is ready as he informs Mrs Rachel Lynde that most of the Avonlea residents gathered in a town cemetery. Mr Gardner’s coffin has already been bundled up on a buggy that Anne and Cecile decorated with his favourite flowers. As soon as Moody’s voice disappears in the void, they hear Rachel’s heavy, quick steps as her best slippers hit the wooden floor. The older woman emerges from behind the door, holding a slice of onion in one hand and a water in the other, and closes the gap between her and Anne, pressing an onion to the younger woman’s eye. 

“Rachel! What on earth are you doing?!” The redhead groans, trying to wipe the burning sensation off her eyelids. Cecile covers her mouth with a hand, and manages to hide inelegant giggle before Mrs Lynde will see her smiling. 

“I know you’re not going to shed a tear, but people have already started talking.” Rachel mutters under her breath, throwing an offending vegetable on a plate as she takes a look at her work — Anne sniffles quietly, rubbing her eyes every few seconds to get rid of the effects of onion touch. Heaven only knows what kind of tribulation she’s getting through with as stubborn human being as Anne. “A woman doesn’t have to love her husband to be a good wife.” 

Mrs Lynde softens as she tucks a few auburn locks behind the redhead’s ear and holds her hand in a motherly gesture. They may be as different as water and fire, but at the end of the day they always would be pillars of strength for each other. Rachel knows her girl well enough to recognise that her calm demeanor is only superficial, and deep inside Anne grieves. 

“What is the point of crying if tears aren’t real?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Finally here we are! 
> 
> I'm so happy I can share this fic with y'all, you lovely people! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed the writing process. Also big HUGE thank you to my lovely friend anignoranthistorian who is sort of a godmother to this fic, and has been listening patiently to my endless ranting for a while.
> 
> Take care and drink water!
> 
> Sending my love to y'all!


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